


To Drown is not to Die

by vityamins



Series: Drowned man cryptid Charon [1]
Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, M/M, Nobody Dies, but a hopeful ending, charon's just a little bit emo, human Hermes, kind of sad, ok a lot emo, references and mentions of death, sea cryptid charon au, the time is ambiguous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:34:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29802984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vityamins/pseuds/vityamins
Summary: Charon was wrong.Barely more than a corpse, he floated in the depths.
Relationships: Charon/Hermes (Hades Video Game)
Series: Drowned man cryptid Charon [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2190660
Comments: 17
Kudos: 56





	To Drown is not to Die

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so this is a product of me staying up far too late to entertain a brainworm. Charon is a sort of 'drowned man', a kind of not-quite-dead-not-quite-alive being that is partially inspired by a fic from another fandom a long time ago that I can't really remember and partially inspired from a weird dream I had.
> 
> Mermaid Au -esque, but Charon definitely has legs.

Charon was wrong.

He knew as much through the tales of sailors, in the looks of horror and fear of children that caught sight of him. In the way that their mothers tried to calm and placate them, but led them away from the water all the same. 

It was there that he existed. Lived wasn’t right; Charon didn’t  _ live _ . Cool, wan skin and a gaunt figure. Wide, soulless, sunken eyes.

Charon was an abomination.

Barely more than a corpse, he floated in the depths. He didn’t belong by the land that he watched so intently; the light and movement and noise that remained even as the people and styles changed. The surface was forever lively, forever colourful.

Charon was only forever. 

The inky black was where he belonged. Right where the coldest water lay against the silt untouched by light and mankind, where even weed dared not grow. There was no home to be made there, amongst the great expanses of settled dirt and nothing, so Charon wandered. Sometimes the water was warmed by natural springs, sometimes it was sweet and clean. Sometimes it carried the heavy tang of salt.

Eventually, it always led back to the shore. For as much as it tried to repel him, Charon found himself drawn to return.

Back to the light, the movement, the noise. It was there that he first saw the man.

The day was growing dark; while that meant little on the seafloor, for the land it meant the warm glow of light and merriment. Perhaps there was a festival to be celebrated - it looked as though the whole town danced the streets and lit the most beautiful orange paper lanterns. Charon longed for them, longed for the bright flame within. How warm it looked! How flickering and inconstant!

He had caught one, just once, many years before when it had landed on the surface of a harbour. The water had been calm and the glow so tempting… It had extinguished into a melted pile of grey mush the moment he had reached out to touch it.

So he watched them from afar.

The man stood by a roughly constructed dais between the buildings and the water, surrounded by people and bright strips of fabric and raucous laughter. Merry music climbed high into the darkening evening, entwining with the smells of smoke and cooking to reach where Charon lay floating, long white hair drifting like seafoam about his surfaced head. The man’s clothes were simple enough, though the easy way he leaned against a wooden post and tapped a restless foot against the ground attracted Charon’s gaze all the same. He removed himself from the post, raising his hands to clap above his head as the band raised their tempo before he hopped onto the raised wooden platform with the other dancers and started  _ flying _ . Those quick feet moved with a grace no creature could hope to match, his lithe body twisting merrily as if he were made to dance. Some of the dancers joined him, others made room for the jolly display and clapped their hands in time. Charon could only look on in awe as the dancer spun, his face incandescently beautiful as his grin caught the glow of flame.

How warm he looked! How lambent and whimsical! With his skin like burnished bronze and steps as light as a bird’s; Charon was transfixed. He hadn’t noticed himself moving forward until his long fingers grasped the rough stone of the harbour wall. He clung to it like a lifeline, as though the cold surface could keep him grounded. He already felt his soul soaring to reach.

“Hermes!” Someone called.

One of the drunks stumbled out of the pub towards the reverie, sloshing cup in hand. Charon would not have noticed him had the dancer not heard the call over the sound of merriment and leapt over to throw his arm about the other’s shoulders familiarly.

Hermes. So that was his name.

Charon rolled the word around his skull for a moment, getting acquainted to the sound and shape of the letters. He tried to speak them for himself; only a rough gurgle and the murky water of the depths spilled from his sallow lips. He had long since lost the gift of speech, if he ever had it at all. What need had a monster of the words of man?

He had never missed them before. Now he felt the loss keenly.

Eyes still fixed on the man, his gaze followed the pair as they stumbled about the cobblestones. The brown-haired dancer seemed to favour the dais, laughing and pulling at the drunk to join him as the two engaged in a conversation Charon could not hear. The lush rather predictably preferred the crowd in the pub, and the two tugged at each other clumsily until the tipsy man lost his balance and nearly threw the pair to the ground, caught only by the nimble movements of the brunet. They untangled themselves, laughing, before the drunkard manoeuvred himself back to where he came from, helped in the doorway by a young woman that he abruptly became preoccupied with kissing.

The dancer only shook his head fondly, hopping back over to the dais and rejoining the dance.

Not a couple then, Charon thought. He didn’t know why that fact stuck out to him, only that he felt it was important. Maybe they were friends, or family. He dismissed the thought.

For hours he watched the man dance. Occasionally with others, often by himself, he danced on until the moon was high and full. There were fewer people gathered at the platform now; many had moved to the pub or retired for the night. Charon could not understand them. He could not have been dragged from the spectacle for anything. Hermes never seemed to tire, even as the flames burned low and the music slowed. The night was winding down, yet the man surprised him still.

As he had in the very beginning, he raised his hands to clap once more. They were loud, sure, and began to steadily speed up as the remaining revellers caught on. Once the crowd was behind him, he jumped up onto a long wooden table that had long since emptied and stomped one foot in time. 

He sang.

His voice was clear, if untrained, and carried over to where Charon watched. While he hadn’t heard the song, the merrymakers were familiar, picking up the verse as Hermes’ stomping became another spirited dance. He stayed up on the table, having plenty of room to spin and step as if he were born for it. The band joined in for one final song, playing as though it were their last. Even those in the pub, well into their cups, stumbled outside to watch as Hermes  _ cartwheeled _ over the aged wood.

Though the torches were on the verge of dying, the dancer had never shone brighter. A sea breeze picked up, ruffling the loose waves on the man’s head; Charon felt as if it carried him with it. He stretched up upon his long, pale arms to better see Hermes’ final performance, dark eyes aglow.

_This was living. This is what it was to have a warm heart beat in one’s chest._ _This was the essence that called him back to the land._

He felt a phantom warmth grow beneath his protruding ribs. The echo of a memory, or the hope of a dream.

Hermes finished his dance with a flourish, arms flung wide and temple sparkling with sweat. His legs struck an attitude as the band stopped and the crowd thundered their applause. All eyes were on him.

Charon remained frozen, still enraptured in his spell.

From up on the table, with a clear view of the harbour, Hermes stared back.

If Charon could have choked, he would have, long fingers dropping from the wall and diving deep below the surface. He cursed himself. He cursed his curiosity and the pull of the land.

He could not curse the dancer.

Charon swam far out, away from the harbour and the noise. He curled his gangly limbs towards his body and thought of the dancer, and of light and warmth. Of the man that  _ didn’t  _ see him, he reassured himself, that  _ couldn’t  _ have seen him.

Because when he looked, it hadn’t been in disgust.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know any feedback in the comments, I wrote this a few hours ago and my proofreading is shoddy at the best of times.
> 
> If people like this, I might write more for it? I have other ideas.
> 
> Come talk about Hades and all its beautiful characters @vityamins_ao3 on twitter and @vityamins on tumblr!
> 
> Kudos and comments make my day :)


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